


First Time

by orphan_account



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Confessions, F/M, First Time, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:37:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2537903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis beds Claire for the first time.  Afterwards, they discuss other firsts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Time

“Who was your first?” asks Frank lazily. He and Claire are in the narrow bed of her tiny dorm room; she lives alone, having routed any attempted roommates and though her dorm doesn’t allow male visitors, that doesn’t give her or her date a second thought as they sneak inside to finally consummate their budding relationship.

“My first?” She nestles against Frank's ( _Francis_ , she insists) chest, not bothering to tug up the sheet; she knows how lovely her breasts look in the moonlight. “That would be my 9th Grade Track Coach…”

Francis chuckles. “No, no. Your _first_.”

“I don’t…” She’s confused until she sees something in his eyes, even in the near dark of the room. Something she’s seen in her own mirror. With Francis, it’s like two puzzle pieces joining together and it feels very, very good, a relief even, so she blushes for the first time that evening and asks, “Will you tell me yours?”

He wiggles, stretching his shoulders, which are broad and muscular still, despite the relative inactivity of Harvard Law School. Kissing her sleek, dark head, Francis clears his throat.  “I was nine years old and even I knew that our neighbor, Mr. Troy, was a bit of a shit. He was old and cranky, for one but that wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. I was a cute little cuss and knew how to use my smile and my manners, at least until he shot my grandmother’s cat.”

“He _what_?”

“See, we lived on a peach farm but Mr. Troy wasn’t a farmer. He was a retired pharmacist and amateur birder and he thought old Gus, my grandmother’s pride and joy, was killing off all the birds in his yard. So he took a pellet gun and when Gus went after a grackle or red-winged blackbird, what have you, he started shooting.”

Claire stroked Francis’s belly. He was her first lover since the incident of _Freshman Year_. She’d waited and waited, determined not to date another man, at least until Francis swept her off her feet at the Cotillion. He was sleek and, as she reached down, hard again. She gave him a friendly squeeze, as if to say, ‘Keep going’.

“He managed not to kill Gus, only peppering his furry, fat butt with pellets but it was enough to make my grandmother cry. I don’t mind cats, as such, and Gus and I weren’t particular friends but if there was someone I did care about, it was my Gran. So I hatched a plot for our revenge."

She squeezed again, earning a little moan from him. “Sounds positively Machiavellian.”

Francis chuckles. “Well, I wasn’t out to kill Mr. Troy, mind you. I just wanted him to feel some pain so one afternoon, after hours lugging water buckets for the damned peach trees, I spied a hornet’s nest. My daddy had shown me how to smudge the nests with smoke to soothe the hornets and bees.”

She looks surprised.

“It’s an occupational thing; goes with running an orchard. Where there are fruit trees, there are bees, wasps, hornets. During harvest season, there were least a dozen nests in the trees. We’d keep the bees – we needed them for pollination and my mother harvested their honey and wax for side income. But we’d toss the hornets and wasps into an old deep freeze in the shed behind the house. Let ‘em freeze to death. I was stung by those little fuckers more than once and I remember feeling a great deal of satisfaction, watching their frozen bodies pour out when I’d shake the nest. Anyway, I smoked them good and sneaked into Mr. Troy’s old barn, where he kept his lawn tractor. It was his habit to mow his lawn every Monday afternoon in the summer, rain or shine and it was Monday. So I poked the nest beneath the tractor. He came home, started the engine and the blades started spinning. The nest exploded and the hornets were awake…and angry.”

He stops talking long enough to kiss her neck, sliding his palm down her flat belly to the cleft of her sex. She arched beneath his clever fingers, panting “Go on.”

“Well, I _meant_ for him to get stung, but it turned out Mr. Troy was allergic to wasp venom. He started swelling up like a sausage three days in the sun and he choked to death, right there on the tractor seat.”

They stop talking, long enough for her to pulse and shudder through two, maybe two and a half orgasms. “You didn’t mean to kill him,” she pants, kissing him blindly.

“Oh, Claire, but I was glad! So glad!” Francis replies, spreading her knees and entering her once more.


End file.
